


Survival of the Fittest

by starry_eyyyed



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Aggression, Angst and Violence, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, Feral Behavior, Fist Fights, Gore, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No Romance, Other, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starry_eyyyed/pseuds/starry_eyyyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no such thing as a warrior with clean hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival of the Fittest

**Author's Note:**

> I love Furiosa so much and it pains me to see people sweep her violence and most likely gruesome past under the rug. Ergo, I wrote this self indulgent fic full of violence and gore. 
> 
> Also, there is no way Furiosa can be mentally stable after her life. 
> 
> QUICK HEADS UP: This work includes a LOT of graphic descriptions of gore and violence as well as mentions of mental illness and symptoms of psychosis, I do not recommend you read if you are especially sensitive to these subjects.

There was no kindness in this world. There were no Gods to pray to, no saving grace, there was no redemption for people like her. She knew this, she wasn't at peace with it, but peace was a thing of the past. Her mind was a hailstorm, and she functioned only her primal instincts. She survived, no, she _THRIVED_ off violence. She had made her way to Imperator by beating War Boys to death, by ripping out the teeth and throats of whomever she was told to, by dragging innocent people by the neck across the desert, scalping anyone who got into the way.

She would never be able to atone for her sins. The amount of spilled blood on her hands had washed away any humanity she had tried to hold on to. She adapted, she survived. She was a warrior, a ruthless killer in this barren land. She needed no war cry now, her name was a dagger that plunged into the hearts of all, while streams of fear trickled out of the wound.

-

Her first major sin was around the 5,004th day, when she was still considered a War Boy. A fight had broken out between some War Boys, which was not uncommon mind you, but this one was especially bloody. No one knew the exact reason that the fight had broken out, while some speculated it might have been just to settle a few old scores, but soon the whole room was in a violent frenzy, and Furiosa was caught in the middle of it. She had seen older War Boys only harm others enough to barely keep them alive, and had even been taught a few moves by some kinder souls, but with a sea of elbows, knees, shivs and blades being swung about she knew she had to stop them before anyone could get close enough to kill her. Her arm was freshly removed (she had gotten it sawed off after a nasty gash had infected the arm, and she was still getting used to the tender stub) and was wrapped tightly in dirty gauze to keep her from being in constant pain, but any fear of death or injury she had before was thrown out the window after she had successfully kneed a wayboy hard enough between the legs she felt his balls burst. She scrambled to get her hands on anything, a knife, a stone, shit even a wrench would have been enough. She ripped out a rusty balisong knife from the still twitching body of a warboy. She had used these knives before, plenty of times, and now she let her instincts take charge. She pushed and grabbed whoever she could get her hands on, slicing at throats, wrists, ribs, tendons, anything that would immobilize her target. She was soaked in blood, red flowering spots on her skin and clothes, face set in a feral, crazy snarl and eyes beady, darting about the corpses littered about the floor. There were chunks of warboys strewn about, more than a few severed fingers crunched under her work boots as she ducked under and about the still living. She had run over a warboy who had his liver, stomach and small intestine ripped out of him in a bloody, disgustingly rank and soft mess but was still barely alive, but the pained howls that were ripped from his throat suggested he wished otherwise.The fucking things were still moving too.

She still had vivid memories of holding warboys down as they begged for their half-lives, before her blade made contact with their trachea, before she had cut their tongue out, before slicing their kneecaps open and snapping them out of place with a sick POP. She had however, emerged victorious, coated in the blood of those around her with minimal gashes and lacerations, and she proudly stood atop a mountain of corpses that had piled up, holding a severed limb that was haphazardly cut off, jagged cuts, muscles, veins and strips of flesh hung down from where the arm should have connected to the torso, and the bone was sharp and broken, shattered by the impact of her boot when she had taken down her victim. She would later that night almost throw up at the mere thought of what she did, but in that moment she had established that she was top dog, a force to be reckoned with. The terrified faces of the survivors left in that pitifully dark, dank room was proof enough.

-

She had again proved her name, Furiosa, when she had been at the citadel for 5,745 days. It had really been a series. The first one was when a burly thing of a War Boy had cornered her in the garages after hours after evidently returning from a long recon mission and hoped to avenge his driver, whom she had offed back in the massacre in the Pits. She took several blows to the face, as well as a few well placed shots to the stomach, and as soon as she had grabbed the closest thing near her which to help give her an advantage, which happened to be a hefty adjustable wrench, and beaten him in the head an excessive number of times. She had easily broken past the skull, which cracked like brittle tumbleweeds, and had gotten into the brain, squishy, bloody chunks flew across the floor and stuck to the wrench.

Word spread like wildfire, and any War Boy who had a past premonition of seeking vengeance or trying to cause any harm to Furiosa had sunk into the shadows. Whenever she walked through the corridors, War Boys stuck to the walls, averting their gazes and only the few who dared to speak did so in hushed tones. This continued for a good 340 days.

From there on out, she had turned into this fearsome snarling thing, the one who beat War Boys to death because they refused to participate, the one who had gouged out some poor bastards' eyes with her thumbs and left his body to rot. She had made herself the alpha in a feral lot, War Boys. The worst part was that she was supposed to be _proud_ of this.

-

But, she was not just a hardened road warrior. She was not just a cold, merciless machine. She was not a thing. Contrary to popular belief, she felt pain and remorse. She felt, but mostly in horrible nightmares or hallucinations. The agonizing wails of the dead that desperately pawed at her feet regularly flashed before her. The bodies were long disposed of, either eaten by desperate War Boys or dumped down to the Wretched, but she remembered the mangled corpses. She remembered every sick squelch of organs being splayed about, the rivers of blood that stained the rock, various dismembered arms, jaws, fingers, ears, teeth and shit even a few gouged out eyes always littered about in these hallucinations. Even if it were only for a few brief moments, it felt much longer, and it look horrifyingly real. The metallic scent of blood and the heavy smell of death and rot violated her nostrils. Her skin was cold and clammy whenever she separated from the physical world and entered the terrifying realm of her mind. Her breathing was heavy and rapid, eyes wide with panic and now was when her most basic instincts kicked in; fight or flight, to run out to somewhere safer, or to try to yell and push the imaginary figures away. Everything was muddy and crystal clear all at once, with a sea of painted faces she couldn't make out but knew precisely who they belonged to. Scarred, dirty and clawed hands dug into her skin, ripping her flesh into ribbons and wounds from long ago re-opened, bleeding profusely. The hoarse voices of the dead, all layered over one another giving them a petrifying volume shouting in unison,

_Why? Why did you kill us? You're a monster! You're not a human, nothing more than some crazy bitch!_

She moved to cover her ears, but it's hard to block out the voices in your head. 

-

She never accepted comfort, and that's what drove her off the brink. It wasn't that she didn't  _want_ a comforting embrace, like Mary used to do when she had nightmares as a child, it wasn't that she didn't want a soothing voice and someone to assure her everything would be all right and bring her back to the real world, but she had grown to know that there was no time for weakness in this world. She was instinctively aggressive only because after a certain point she knew nothing else. So when a few close War Boys, had attempted to get her to open up, she spat in their faces for being soft and plunged herself into her work. 

Maybe there was some kindness in this world, but she had lost hers. She didn't need, she assured herself. 

_There was no kindness in this world._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo! Finally done after three weeks or so of busy work and lounging around. I have to say, there will never be a day when I don't love broken Furiosa.


End file.
